The Prima Materia
by J0rmungand3r
Summary: New Britan is being terrorized by the last remaining Rebels, and the whole of continental Europe is threatening war. The Dark Lord is at his wits end. So, naturally, a certain Brat comes back from the land of the dead to pester him with endless cheek, surprisingly plausible battle plans, and a lust for violence. This might not turn out so badly. Dark!harry MultI ship main HP/LV


Disclaimer: I'm a devout lover of Machiavellian philosophy. If it actually worked, I would own Harry Potter. But it doesn't. So Rowling still owns the rights to the wonder boy. And I'm still broke. So please don't sue me.

Chapter one

Harry's heart was pounding… a deep resonating force within his chest.

Run! It urged. Keep me beating! Live! Run!

It was a tempting thought, harry admitted to himself. The forest seemed to embody all that he was about to face. Gnarled twisted trees formed a seemingly lifeless canopy above his head. The dead leaves crinkled beneath the worn, shredded trainers on his feet, and rustled as they rolled over the forest floor. All was silent under that waxing half-moon; unnaturally so. Not a singular chirping cricket, nor a bird's call could be heard.

It was as if the creatures knew; that their silence was in awe, or perhaps just in pity of his sacrifice. Or did they simply know something he did not, a sixth sense that humans did not possess. Was his sacrifice in vain? His death meaningless? Were they waiting in terrified silence for the dawn of the Darks reign?

No. Harry took a deep breath, hearing the voices of Voldemort's followers, just past the thicket ahead. He refused to believe that he was about to die for nothing. He knew that, deep in his very soul that his life meant so much more. He wasn't just another notch in the dark lord's wand.

So he stepped into view. His ears were ringing terribly, as if shielding him from the sound of Voldemort's gently patronizing mockery. He didn't want to see it, that horrible green glow at the tip of the man's wand, anticipating its task before the words were even spoken. So he closed his eyes, and waited.

….

….

Nothing. Harry scowled. Was Voldemort really going to prolong his wait? Was he truly that petty, to watch him stand there and just wait for death; to turn his courageous, selfless act into yet another joke amongst his lackeys?

He opened his eyes, ready to somehow retaliate, but only found himself stunned. Around him rose infinitely tall Grecian columns, seemingly with no purpose, as the ceiling of this ghostly white world could not be seen. He turned on the spot, taking in the vast misty hallway he was standing in. the walls were lined with white bookshelves, filled with a seeming endless supply of glittering gold and silver tomes encrusted with jewels of every color and shape.

He was in absolute awe at this exquisite…library? His thoughts traversed to Hermione, who would no doubt give up her firstborn child just to spend a day here. But where here was, exactly, harry had no clue. But there were more pressing matters. Despite the undeniably serine atmosphere, he knew that if there was any possibility of returning to the forbidden forest, he would have to find it soon. He had fully accepted his death, and, never having been a particularly religious young man, had assumed that there would be nothing afterwards, save the minute possibility of becoming a ghost.

But this…he was self-aware, he was still sentient and had form. He knew he had, dare he go by the old cliché, unfinished business, and it weighed him down even here. He had to go back. But he hadn't the faintest as to how.

"If you're looking for a way out," harry spun on his heel as a voice rang out from all directions, not quite echoing through the endless room. "I can show you the way."

Harry, on sheer reflex, reached for his wand. But all he found was bare skin. It would seem he was naked.

'Fantastic.' He thought. As sure as he was, somehow, that while here, he was untouchable, it made him ill at ease to know he was so utterly vulnerable. As if his pulse hadn't been pounding in his ears hard enough.

"No magic in here I'm afraid." The decidedly male, wraithlike voice continued, though its whispy quality had lessened. It was most definitely closer. "Not that you need it. I'm no threat to you."

Harrys gaze darted about, searching for the source of the disembodied voice while theories, both logical and absurd, spun through his mind like a whirlwind. Whether he was under some hallucinogenic curse, or dead and in some strange afterlife was irrelevant. He was where he was, and he needed to remain calm and focused. He couldn't think straight in a panic. So with a slightly deeper breath than was perhaps necessary, he spoke in reply.

"If you aren't a threat," he asked. "Why don't you tell me where you are?" he hoped it wasn't as much of a longshot as he thought it was.

"Right here." Harry jumped and stumbled back in a half turn before he found himself looking at a man clad in deep midnight black, lounged on the top of one of the shorter bookshelves, his head propped up by a fist, and looking quite comfortable. "Hey."

His smirk, harry observed, was lined with a mean set of teeth, still human, simply…sharper. Paired with those green, fluorescent eyes he looked positively feral at first glance. They were smoldering and wild, despite the somewhat darkened, swollen state. He clearly lacked sleep.

But one thing stood out clear as day. This man – no, boy, (for he couldn't be much older than sixteen or seventeen, and was actually quite waifish despite his well-built torso) was remarkably similar to himself in appearance. Frighteningly so. Were he to stand side by side to him, one would have thought they were twins. Starkly contrasting twins, but identical nonetheless.

Harry was at a complete loss; a mess of infinite questions about infinite things. There was too much, and he had no idea where to begin. Clearly the strange doppelganger picked up on this.

"Quite the head rush you got there." In a blur, he rushed forward, stopping just barely close enough to make things uncomfortable. Especially considering that, up close, it was now undeniable. Those eyes, that nose, the strong chin; they were all his, all hidden behind a styled nest of beads and feathers, shredded leather and a radiating aura of dark sensuality. Those eyes though, those two glowing eyes that seemed to emit a mist like trail in their wake, they burned into him. There was just…so much more to them. They spoke of anger and hatred and rebellion. He found himself taking a step back, put on edge by that gaze.

"What are you?" harry nearly winced, having meant to ask "who" he was, and hoped he didn't come off as insulting. But the other harry simply chuckled. Harry realized how much he had backed away on sheer instinct when his back hit one of the columns.

The other harry, however purred in approval and seemed to tower over him despite them being exactly the same height. icy breath ghosted over his lips, emanating a familiar rattle.

'Dementor...' harry thought through the growing discomfort. It was an odd sensation that he realized was arousal. Physically he was not reacting. He offhandedly attributed this to the fact that he was probably dead. But that he was currently cornered by a version of himself, and sporting a…mental hard on didn't sit too well with him. True he was unbiased when it came to gender, finding that sex was sex and pleasurable all around, but this was something else altogether. Even as his breathing picked up, and the other harry was leaning in dangerously close, he was very off put by this strange narcissistic attraction.

The cold washed over him and he was taken over by a near uncontrollable urge to run that directly conflicted with the overpowering desire to show throat, as it were and let this thing do what it wished.

"To put it as simply as possible," Harrys heart was beating out of his chest as he could feel the air between their lips swimming with some unspoken warning. What it was, he had no idea, "I'm death… little man."

When he felt that mouth brush against his own, Harrys world was shattered. His mind and his "body" were an explosion of arctic pleasure, consumed with what he knew had to be a dementors kiss. His soul was being sucked out through that talented mouth, teased and coaxed from his core by the sinful tongue that danced across his own. And he couldn't do a thing to stop it. He didn't want to. He would happily give up his soul to this divine, if not dead creature that took his form. His fingers curled against his doubles chest, knuckles cracking and turning white as his entire form seemed to arch of its own accord off the stone column and into the numb, mindless ecstasy that pulled at him. Hands wandered over his form with expert precision, teasing and pressing and plucking at the strings of his self-control until they snapped, and he was writhing mindlessly into the body that pressed flush against his.

And then it was over, his other self, pulling back with a satisfied groan, and for a split moment, a thread of saliva connected their tongues while harry panted for breath.

"You might want to sit down." came the whisper against his ear. Harry nodded, accepting the words of Death as truth with very little issue, taking a seat on a plush lounge chair that he didn't remember having been there, before his mind cleared to manageable levels. But nothing at the moment, he though, could stifle the utter confusion wracking his brain right now.

"Where is this place?" he asked without much thought. It wasn't the most obvious of questions, but at the moment, he was still in recovery from whatever mental orgasm had just come over him.

"Not really sure." The boy who called himself Death, shrugged lazily, looking rather smug at the flushed and rather delicious nude form of his charge. "But if I were to make a guess, I'd say it was a library." Harry watched the smirk grow by a few teeth, and huffed at the unhelpful answer, too exhausted to retaliate with his own snarky response, while 'other harry' leaned an arm against the nearest shelf, crossing one foot over the other. "I've never seen a Hallway quite like this before. Normally it's just a narrow pathway of doors." He rolled his erethral eyes. "Gets so boring. Nobody has any imagination."

Harry didn't even bother asking what he meant, knowing there was more to come. If anything, he suspected that "death" had exhausted him on purpose, to discourage any unwanted questioning. If so, it had worked spectacularly. Regardless he attempted to get some clarification. But before he could say a word, death held up a hand and dipped his head, politely requesting his silence, and Harry saw no reason not to comply. However, those eyes kept wandering over him, and he wished he had some clothes. Things were weird enough.

"Their hall of lives." Death continued, looking rather amused, and pulled a book from the shelves, tossing it to him. "Each book is a complete record of a past life. Go ahead and look."

As harry caught the tome, he noticed that his arm was covered by a green sleeve. And the weighted sensation of being clothed set in.

"Thanks" he mumbled with the slightest blush, receiving a suggestive and pointy leer in return.

"Just read" he said with a wave of his heavily ringed hand.

Harry nodded and gazed down at the title of the heavily jeweled tome of gold. Engraved into the cover were two rows of runes, spelling a name, harry found himself surprised he could read, having never taken runes, or picked up enough from Hermione to do so.

"Niccolo Macchievelli?" Harry lifted an eyebrow at his companion, rather skeptical of the idea that he had been Niccolo fucking Machiavelli in a past life.

"Wait what?" harry found himself flushing hotly when his double was suddenly behind him, hands on his shoulders as he read over them. The cold seemed to seep into his veins, but not unpleasantly so. "Huh….well I'll be damned." It seemed death found this amusing.

"What is it?"

"Well this is a large library you see." Deaths chuckle echoed as he leaned against the shelf again. "And there are hundreds of billions just like it. Cant memorize everything now can i?" but to put it as simply as possible. You were the source of Machiavellian philosophy, once upon a time." His features took on a somewhat sour expression. "Never did like his works much. So self-serving. No offense." He added with a chuckle. "But I suppose that was the whole point."

"So… all these books contain my past lives." Harry looked up to see that death was no longer behind him but staring at his fingernails as he, once more, leaned against a shelf.

"Your brilliant deduction powers astound me." Came the somewhat patronizing response. Harry was sorely reminded of Severus, and scowled. "Unfortunately, it seems that your time as one Harry Potter is at an end. Shame that." Though he didn't seem too sorry. "I'm going to miss this body."

"What does that have to do with anythin- wait…you mean…" Death nodded, beads jingling in his hair as he held out a hand, and a book came sailing into it from the far end of the hallway. Without a word, harry took the golden tome and read the name "harry potter" on the front. With a glance up at his double, he opened it up to the last page.

"Despite the predictions of one Albus Percy Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, harry potters body was destroyed with the horcrux, dissolving into ash upon contact with the third curse which the Fifth Death bestowed unto Healer St. John Mungo of Wiltshire, at exactly twelve seconds after the stroke of eleven, this night."

Harry sat in silence for a long moment, trying to drink it all in. It seemed more real, his death, now that he had seen this.

"So…" his voice was so quiet, terrified that if he spoke too loud, this last bit of existence would snuff out. "I'm really dead."

"Well…" deaths tone caught Harry's attention immediately. "Not entirely." Harry could just hear the smirk in his voice as he looked up from his book. He didn't like sound of it, and the red flags started popping up everywhere in his head.

"What do you mean 'not entirely'?" harry asked with a cautious tone.

"There may be this loophole in clause 2039864 section F-2-817 of the Necronomicon." At that moment death looked like a naughty child who had just stolen from the cookie jar, and not gotten caught. "Indicating that the holder of such monies and or properties which once belonged to the one or ones named Death by way of theft, gift or loss; is in fact exempt from clause 5402857 section A (regarding the mandatory reincarnation of the deceased) and may return to the plane of the living in his or her previous body."

"Um" Harry blinked, having understood nothing that had just been said. "Could you repeat that?" Death rolled his eyes once more, and huffed in exasperation.

"It means you're what the humans call "master of death" and can go back."

"I can?" harry dared hope that there was no

"But," Ah. There it was. "Unfortunately your body was destroyed, sooo… yeah. That isn't an option. Sorry." Death sucked in a breath through his teeth and made a saccharine face that stated quite clearly that he wasn't. Prat. Harry scowled and opened his mouth to ask why even get his hopes up, but was cut off.

"Naturally if you choose to go back and save the world, or whatever you're supposed to do in your life as harry potter…you would need a body. That's not as easy a task as some would think" death paused to allow his rather shark like teeth to glimmer behind a smirk. "I'm going to require some….compensation." Harry's eyes narrowed as he stood up, the lounge chair fading out of existence. He pondered for a moment on this possible "deal with the devil". Just by asking about if further, he would be approaching a floodgate that, once opened, would not be able to be shut. He knew he had a martyr complex…if he were to, for once, ignore his need to save the day, and move on into his next life, who could blame him really? He had gone through so much, and reaped so little. Suffered so much, bled for the worlds of good it did. Who could blame him for moving on, for wanting a new life?

But he had to know…

"What sort of compensation are you asking?"

"Now that." Deaths eyes seemed to grow brighter, and the white world began to fade into an endless sea of black, they were floating amongst the stars, nebulae, and galaxies of the universe, the Milky Way a river beside them. "Is going to take some explanation." With that, his clothing, his adornments and jewelry all melted away, leaving a sexless, nude form of harry behind. The tattoos decorating his skin looked to be tribal, pre Viking Britannian designs, and harry thought them rather beautiful.

Stepping into the shimmering stream of stars as if it really were a tangible thing, Death held out a hand as ripples ran though the glowing matter. Harry hesitated before stepping in as well, surprised at the pleasantly cool sensation that reminded him of wading in the ocean not too long ago by the shell cottage, and walked beside death. It struck him in that moment, that despite the mixed feelings he had towards this Death chap, the serenity of mutual and familiar kinship floated about, prominent in the atmosphere. As if he had done this before…many…many times before.

"Ingotius," the figure before him spoke gently, echoing with a thousand undertone whispers. It had harry looking around, as if he might be able to see the source. It was as if he was speaking to the True side of death, and not a reflection of teenage rebellion. Harry could actually find that amusing and ironic. The liveliest part of life reflected in your death. But this….this was the voice of an ancient wisdom. "My face is that of Ignotius Peverell." Harry rationalized that, his normal reaction, would be to blanch, maybe stop in his tracks and ask the many questions that he already knew the answer to, if he simply took the time to think as he was now.

It truly cleared up a lot of the confusion harry had been left with. It was obvious that he and Ignotius were corresponding lifetimes. Most certainly he had shared his face with many previous lifetimes. Not all, but many. And he thought, maybe, that he should conduct research on this, if he did return.

It would be interesting to figure it out on his own, rather than scour that endless hallway.

"It is." harry replied simply, making his understanding, and acceptance known.

"He was my first soul…and so, I took physical form in his image. A sort of…reverse of what so many religions believe to be the origins of man. Of course," Death continued with the faintest chortle. "My choice of attire was somewhat more liberal than what he preferred."

"I figured." Harry smiled as the serenity within him became thick and heavy, not quite weighing him down, not quite letting him float. It was perfect…absolute peace. No guilt, no urgency, no regret or stress, no needs or wants. Just…simple being. He imagined that this level of high was probably what no smoker could even hope to achieve. "I always imagined him dressing like a certain old man I knew."

"Oh no. that was Cadmus, I am afraid. Ignotius was rather fond of simple clothing." Death pulled a feather from his hair and let it float in an invisible breeze as a sunset broke free at its contact with an equally invisible wall, fading out over the span of seconds back into stars. "Though…he did love his feathers. He felt like they were the perfect metaphor for the way life carries you through itself." Death smiled to himself.

"But back to the matter at hand. I would be giving up my physical form to you, harry. That is quite a gift, and will require a bit of collateral, to assure its safe return." Harry could understand this. To go about as a formless wraith, even if you were death. But why on earth would death do something like that for him? For one human?

"Why even give me the option?" Death seemed to ponder for a moment, actually stopping in his tracks to look up at the pink towers of the horsehead nebula. Harry could now see the full depth of the age in those eyes. And he understood. He wouldn't just be taking the body. He would be doing the job.

"Most of the souls find their way on their own." Death turned to harry. "But some fight the Cycle, and so I must go myself, and collect them. So you will collect them." and harry nodded, knowing it was no use to pretend he wasn't going to take up the mantle.

"Will I have to take the form of my first soul?" harry had to ask, even in his floaty bliss, he would not be alright with being trapped in the form of Tom Bloody Riddle.

"Fortunately for you, this…transfer of power is a bit unorthodox. You cannot become death while the previous is still living."

"So I would have to –"

"Kill me." death reached up into nothing and removed a stunning and ornately carved scythe. The handle was petrified ebony, and its blade the molten, translucent black of obsidian. "Yes."

Without a word, harry took it in his hand, feeling that same flood of ice as his veins glowed a milky cerulean and branched out up his arm before fading out. It was alive. A sentient magical weapon with thoughts and feelings that spoke to him, not in words, but so much more. For a long while, harry stood, staring at the weapon in silent contemplation, wondering if he could really do what he was being asked. Had he been asked to do this even minutes ago he would have outright refused. But something about this place…it calmed him, centered him. Like the weapon, he was more than just himself. It had become more and more apparent the longer he was here. He was ceasing to be harry potter. Here…here he was a collection of his many lives, slowly coming together into one consciousness. He could feel the age of the figure before him, as if it were his own, and he knew what had to be done. To live so long, to see so much. Life without an end would eventually become torture. When he next looked at Death, his decision had been made.

"Do I simply end it?" he asked. "I simply swing and then…" he left the question unfinished when death nodded.

"That's it." for some reason this struck harry as odd, and far too simple.

"Isn't there some sort of ceremony?" harry asked with a touch of humor, trying to lighten the decidedly dark turn this conversation had taken. Death actually managed a smirk.

"Should there be?"

"I don't know, it all seems kind of rushed and unofficial without one." A leer spread across deaths face that made harry blush even before a hand tilted his chin, drawing him closer in a most suggestive manner.

"I can think of a few very pleasant rituals. The Mayans had this lovely tradition of sacrificing young, virile men to their gods of death." harry swallowed visibly, remembering that heated kiss from earlier and was grateful for his…lack of virility at the moment. But it was clear that Death was only teasing. "No….I think we had best get this finished. I have long awaited for my chance at death."

Harry could not decide whether he was disappointed or relived as he was released, and death dropped to one knee.

"So…just swing?" he asked, taking a stand facing the side of the bowed head, still feeling rather nervous. "Right?" Death huffed and looked up, looking almost irritated.

"Yes. Now do it." Harry nodded and silently lifted the scythe above his head, gripping the handle with a firm but gentile hand. The scythe itself emitted a reptilian gurgle of approval, and harry wondered if it enjoyed a good petting, like Dudley's old tortoise had.

'And so…' death closed his eyes and let out his final breath. The scythe swung down, and he could feel it approaching as if in slow motion as the faces of those he would finally join all flashed before him. 'I am become death…'

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Harry knew everything. The endless flow of knowledge only grew with every passing moment; every memory from every previous death was there, and yet, it was still him. It was as if he had never been anyone other than death, and they had never been anyone other than him. Every face was known, every name, every wonder, every moment in time. All of it was his to know, his to watch, his to live.

It would have turned any true man insane.

Harry himself was sitting on the sharp edge of the blade, cross-legged, with his chin resting on his fist while he drummed his fingers on the carved thorny vines of ebony. His hair, still beaded and feathered whisped out with the wind that misted the water as it fell into the next stunning pool in a series of seven. All were clear as the cleanest quartz and the tropical flora and fauna that flourished on this lovely little island scented the air.

Behind him, the faded translucent ghosts of past and future guests rolled out behind him as he balanced there on the edge of the highest fall, sitting in non-time. He had been there quite a while.

When he had first regained consciousness everything had both over, and underwhelmed him, and it became clear rather quickly that his existence was now a physical embodiment of opposites. Because not only was he Death, but, in sending souls into the next life, that was exactly what he was. He was Life, as well. In fact…he…in a loose sense, was the controlling factor in everything. He couldn't call himself a god that was far too crass and simple a word for what he was. Death, as a name, would suit him just fine, and always would.

One thing he noted was that, Voldemort was no longer a pressing issue. Should he choose, he could take the man's soul at the moment of his birth, and destroy it, preventing so much pain and suffering? However, he understood the full ramifications for this, and left it alone. He had all the time in the world to decide what to do.

It didn't matter how long he had been harvesting souls, meeting humans and, even on rare occasion, meet with a so called "master of death" when summoned. Everything about him was relative. It was a simple and repetitive life. And not an unpleasant one. He found that he enjoyed this cut and dry existence. It stood in stark contrast to the chaos of all the lives he had experienced prior, all of which he could now remember. And for certain his soul had been a busy one.

But now, he was feeling…almost bored. Perhaps he was due for another change in scenery. He took…trips, to the human existence every so often, and it had been some time since his last excursion in history.

Visions of rolling grassy hills filled his mind's eye, and the perfumed air of the Polynesian islands was replaced by the sweet scent of thistle, grass and earth. The rain poured onto his head with such force that he was soaked in moments from head to foot. But harry old smiled and leaned his head back, arms outstretched in the center of what was once the Hogwarts quid ditch field. Of his endless memories, some of his favorite took place here. Of course, after the initial takeover, a newer, more elaborate field was built nearer the lake. It seemed that Voldemort's rule had put more effort into the funding of education. It was understandable, considering he had once, truly desired to be a professor here.

The hide cloth he wore around his hips shifted and oozed over his body like a second skin, forming something a bit more acceptable in the way of his time at Hogwarts. And he, for once deigned to age himself a few years, coming out of metamorphosis a solid 20. Ignotius' red brown tattoos, however, remained. Harry was unsure of exactly when he was, but he had a fair estimate that he was within ten or twenty years of the hay he died. The Wizarding World had prospered, despite it all. He had already known that muggleborns of this time were taken from their hospital cribs and raised in the pureblood traditions. While they were of a far lower class, the second lowest in fact, they still led good lives. They could not run for office, but they could indeed vote. The highest paying jobs were off limits, but it hardly mattered. Even the lowest of the low were able to avoid poverty with ease. Hunger and homelessness were foreign concepts. The old ways and rituals were revered and gave all a sense of community. Dark and light arts were taught with equal focus and vigor to whichever student was assigned to master their natural affinity. The Wizengamot, once divided by Lords and Commons, Whigs and Tories, was now an equal smattering of light and dark. The balance was kept…on the surface.

But the rebellion continued on under the radar. Black market dealings and trafficking still ran rampant behind the scenes. Every society was flawed. And harry had no business meddling.

So of course…he was about to rai-

"Stupefy!" with a graceful leap into the air, Harry's ghostly, flowing aura trailed behind him, narrowly avoiding the red beam of light that flew at him from behind. Landing on one foot, he watched the magic jet out of the numerous wands of the cloaked figures surrounding him on all sides. He danced about with effortless fluidity, slow enough for the eye to see, but too quick to anticipate. He was aglow with a Technicolor of offensive magic, weaving his arms, legs and body in and out of the tirade attack and altogether enjoying the sudden rush of energy through himself as his magic was called forth in defense. But as it turned out, it was unneeded, when a familiar aura flared out and silenced the spells on the lips of his attackers.

"Stop!" came the guttural hiss. "Cease your fire!" harry landed, catlike, on his feet, facing away as his cloak settled around him, hiding his face beneath the hood. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Voldemort. The Dark Lord. He felt no hatred, nor love for him. Merely amused intrigue. The continuity of his existence prevented him from knowing everything at one given moment, and only what was needed for his present situation. Apparently, his subconscious felt it was more interesting to block all detailed knowledge of his current location in time. Voldemort, was a mystery to him. An enigma. For a young man to become a thriving and successful dictator against the odds he had been dealt was simply astounding. The precision in which he formed the current government was mind boggling and ingenious. And to survive such a distortion of his soul? None had before. And harry was hungry to unlock the knowledge to be gained here. A game he played with himself and the world time and time again. It was the ultimate cure to his boredom.

"That was most impressive." Voldemort spoke, his amusement laced with mild irritation. "But you are a trespasser on my land, wizard." Such a voice, harry thought to himself. Familiar and menacing. Reeking of power and authority. He could appreciate a voice like that. It had been far too long since he had gone on a physical conquest as well. Perhaps he would attempt something of the sort here? True, he would have normally preferred a woman. But Voldemort was truly an exotic specimen of man. He wondered if his skin was as smooth as the slithering creatures he resembled.

"I assume you know who I am."

[Indeed I do.] Harry replied with a resounding hiss, receiving a few startled gasps. Voldemort's face remained impassive.

[It has been a long time since I have heard that language from someone other than myself, Wizard.] Harry felt the probing tendrils of the dark lord's aura reaching for him, feeling him out. [The last of which died at the end of my wand.]

[I assure you that will not happen in this case.] Harry turned slowly, not wanting to startle the now jumpy bunch of lackeys.

[You seem rather confident for someone standing before an immortal dark lord] he could hear the curiosity in that voice, but there was also the sting of impatience. Damn him, he couldn't resist continuing the theatrics, if only for one more moment or two. Now that he was facing the man, harry could see that Voldemort was dressed in a wizarding suit, complete with a black tie and gold cufflinks. He couldn't help but think that it fit him quite nicely.

[I have every reason to be, Tom.] This time, harry could watch as Voldemort actually flinched, before his features twisted into a snarl. It was entertaining, he though, to watch the easily bruised egos of man. He had been the same once upon a time.

[How…do you know that name?] Voldemort no longer spoke with the usual drawl of amusement, but rather, the hiss of Parseltongue seemed to chill the air. But that was nothing to deter harry, who lowered his hood. Whatever reaction harry had expected, the utter stillness of his once arch enemy, and his followers, was not it.

However long it lasted, harry honestly couldn't say, for he had become relatively numb to the passage of time. But when Voldemort next spoke, he found himself pleasantly…surprised.

[I see…], the snakelike visage of the Dark lord took a far more neutral turn than the snarl he had been wearing. "Lower your wands, men. This…child," He sneered. "Is no threat to me."

"But My Lor-"

"Do you question," Voldemort turned a sour gaze at the man who had dared to speak. "Your Lords judgment, Mr. Parkinson?"

Parkinson? Harry thought. Pansy's father? No… her son. Goodness he had arrived a bit later than he had anticipated. Harry watched as the man didn't dare answer and shrank back as his gaze was once again met, and a thin, spidery hand reached out, palm up in invitation. "Join me for supper. We have…much to discuss." Harry could hear the clear threat in that seemingly simple offer. Voldemort was absolutely seething, he could see it in the scant twitch at the corner of those non lips. The only reason for his self-control was simple self-preservation. He knew who harry was…or had been.

And the furious confusion that barely glimmered in his eyes might as well be searchlights pointed right at him.

"Gladly My lord." Harry bowed in a respectful manner with a sweep of his arm, once more taking the dark lord by surprise. Voldemort nodded and turned towards the castle as harry walked beside him, pulling his hood back up so as to hide his face to any who may recognize it.

The moment they stepped through the threshold of the Hogwarts hallways, the heavy rain vanished from their clothing, no longer weighing them down. That was certainly new.

There was in fact, far more change to Hogwarts than was visible on the outside, where the castle appeared almost identical to her original splendor. However, as harry was led through the halls, he found that he actually preferred this far more than what he remembered. No longer was Hogwarts defined by that dimly lit, somewhat gloomy primeval atmosphere. The corridors and wings were gleaming white and black marble, and where there once stood rusty suits of armor, were priceless sculptures that could have once been found in the Louvre museum or the Vatican. The numerous paintings on the wall had been lessened considerably, much to Harry's approval, and placed in tasteful array. Harry could have sworn he had seen "night sky" displayed in the great hall.

The students, who were finished with classes for the day, wandered about, chatting and smiling as if they had not a care in the world, only stopping to offer Harry's escort a short bow and "My Lord", before going on with their business. As Harry Potter, he would have never imagined Hogwarts to seem so…normal, under the rule of a murdering tyrant. And Voldemort was a murdering tyrant. He was simply a reasonably fair one.

And then they approached a very familiar doorway. Rather than a gargoyle, however, guarding the entrance to the old headmaster's office was a bust of-

[Niccolo Machiavelli.] Harry hissed out an ironic chuckle, garnering Voldemort's attention. [How appropriate.]

[Indeed.] Voldemort replied with clipped politeness as the bust opened its mouth to speak.

"I am not interested in preserving the status quo." It recited, and Voldemort answered in kind.

"I wish to overthrow It." the bust gave a knowing smirk.

"Already done that, haven't you?" and with that, the spiraling staircase began to move and the two stepped on. When the office came into view, harry was not surprised to see the stark contrast to what it had once been. Instead of warm oak furniture and endless baubles stacked upon each other, it was built in a modern, almost muggle style. Metallics and glass were everywhere. The walls were enchanted to appear as windows to the outside world, showing the heavy downpour of good Scottish weather, and the matte grey tile floor was carpeted under the leather and titanium furniture in a tasteful off white shag. Above their heads was a stunning mirrored chandelier that harry thought, offhandedly, must have cost a fortune. And to the far left was a doorway which, no doubt led to the bedroom, and harry couldn't help but consider that closed, unwelcome door a challenge.

Everything fit the Dark lord in the strangest way. Yes one could expect a dark, rustic office with a foreboding fireplace, deer heads and endless bookshelves of questionable magic's. However, this seemed much more suited to him.

The one thing that stood out however was a massive black and white portrait of none other than Audrey Hepburn, smiling coquettishly at them both.

[You have fine taste in women.] Harry chose to speak first, and keep things light. If the dark lord did not want to kill him, not that he could, he would have already attempted to do so. [Though who would have thought the all-powerful Voldemort would enjoy muggle cinema]

[I would hardly call cinema "muggle", potter] the man took a seat at his desk and steepled his fingers in a rather stereotypical way that had harry holding back a chortle. [Considering that the technology was built by a squib]

[Touché.] Harry took a seat on the edge of his desk, ignoring the glare he received for his audacity, and decided that the flowing robes were out of place here. He promptly shifted them thoughtlessly into a suit that put Giorgio Armani to shame. The tick in Voldemort's jaw stated plainly that, while he would like to move on to more important things, he was still recovering from the initial shock, and did not trust himself to speak his mind. [To get right to the point, Tom,]

[Must you call me that dreadful name?] The dark lord interrupted with an exasperated growl. It wasn't a question really. More a disguised demand. Harry actually smiled. It seemed that the last few years had wizened the man up.

[Polite decorum in the face of an unknown adversary. I'm impressed.] Harry admitted. [Very well, "My Lord" will do for now.] He conceded, picking up a crystalline paperweight and toying with it in mild curiosity. [Your mind must be abuzz with questions. I am willing to answer them as truthfully as I can.]

Voldemort nodded and tilted his head, eyes practically boring into the young man. He looked like Potter, oh yes. But this…this was not the insolent guttersnipe of a boy that he had killed all those decades ago.

Neatly forty years he had been free of the thorn in his side. He had finally been able to move forward with his reformation. After he had taken Hogwarts, the rest had been practically handed to him. And the violence ended. He had gone strictly political, allowing his general Thorfin Rowle to handle any lingering military excursions that were needed.

And the people….they had fallen for him so quickly. Tired and exhausted by the toll the war had taken on them, the witches and wizards of Britain surrendered unconditionally the moment he promised an end to the destruction. And after a time, their begrudging and bitter kowtowing evolved into a genuine respect and appreciation. It was when he had finally opened the muggleborn orphanages that he had finally won their love. They were happy with the structure, the lack of corruption, the drop in crime.

True the squibs and muggleborns were far less privileged than the half and pure bloods. However it was preferable to the hidden bigotry of the previous ministry. At least here, they knew what to expect, and were trained properly for their place in society.

They were contented, they were happy.

And now, because of one stupid boy who had refused to remain dead, all of it could be potentially shattered. The rebels still remained and were increasing in number with the support of those blasted Americans and their meddling President. He would have thought the demolished economy would have kept them busy. Or perhaps even the current threats of revolution. It was France all over again. But the rich were arrogant and seemed to not care a whit for the slowly growing roars, demanding change. They would rather end the "unjust and inhumane caste system of the British isles'. He needed to know potters intentions. Even the knowledge of his continued existence could rally up more supporters within and without his domain. This would have to be handled with great care and delicacy.

[Very well, potter]

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Okay, wow. I don't know WHAT possessed me to start up a fic during finals week. I got no sleep in days. *I make a crazy face as the camera shakes like a Michael Bay film* Gerrdduurrmmmuurrttt!

I'm honestly not sure how well this fic will pan out in the way of…I guess status quo? General traditional …ness (?) perhaps? Meaning that this is something I work on while absolutely…STUPID high. That's it. Dass wuht jeh get, mih braddah!

…ttchhhphhfft yeah no.

Right! Kay! Serious faces now. This is a huge mix of bullshit that is just…is just so awesome to me and I felt deserved to be mashed up in one fantastic story born from my brilliant mind. *flexes brain muscles* Huarrgh!

Considering it has been literally, half a decade since I last wrote anything worth putting up here I'm probably rusty as fuuuuk. So for this, I apologize. It should improve a lot once I get back into the swing of things.

Im gonna try to get a chapter out once a week. More if I can manage. This week is looking promising ;)

And please…dear friends…this is going to be a rather sexually graphic tale. Of multiple ships, most involving Harry and females. However! The main ship will be Harry/Voldemort. It's just not going to be a huge part of it.

Final note: I'm not gonna be one of those people who asks and begs for reviews at the end of every chapter. I fucking love reviews. I admit it. Give them toooo meee.

But this is gonna be the only time I mention reviews. You're welcome.

That's? it? we good? Alright.

Jormungander OUT!


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